Told in Song
by crackpotwriter
Summary: Ten drabbles inspired by ten different songs, featuring snippets of Michael and Jesse's relationship. Established relationship.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit through the writing of it.

**A/N:** Ten song drabbles featuring Michael and Jesse, in a relationship.

* * *

><p><em>Kid Cudi – "Day 'N Nite"<em>

Jesse glances at Michael out of the corner of his eye. The man's dead tired. It's been a long, sleepless week, for the both of them, but it's been harder on Michael.

Jesse reaches over to the other man, tugs him close, and frowns in concern when Michael remains lax in his arms, refusing to meet his eyes. He brushes his lips across Michael's, and lets them linger – hoping, praying, wishing.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Michael turns his head, deepens the kiss.

* * *

><p><em>Edwin Star – "War"<em>

Gunshots echo in the alley, a child cries, and a woman screams, but Michael doesn't pay them any heed as he searches frantically for Jesse.

"Jess!" he screams, throwing off Sam's restraining arm.

"Mike, we gotta go," Sam says, and he pull-prods Michael out of the alley where bullets are zinging over their heads, past their ears, pinging off of the brick walls, taking out chunks of the building. There's no sign of Jesse, and Michael's heart hammers in his chest. The thought of leaving Jesse behind is inconceivable.

"No." Michael stubbornly digs his heels in, but he loses consciousness and with that, all hope of finding Jesse.

* * *

><p><em>Taco – "Puttin' on the Ritz"<em>

It's a seedy hotel. One that Jesse wouldn't normally be caught dead in, but it fits their client, and that's all that matters.

"Look, Jess," Michael says, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, edging close so that no one can overhear them, "I know it ain't the Ritz, but…"

Jesse sighs, and offers Michael a tight smile as he closes the small space between them and kisses Michael. "I know," he says, simply.

The smile that Michael gives him in return makes Jesse's heart sing, and he kisses Michael in earnest, drawing open-mouthed stares from other hotel guests, some of whom are openly leering. There are catcalls, taunts and whistles, which only serve to spur Jesse on.

Jesse feels Michael tense and stiffen, and he smirks.

"Fuck, wait til we get to the room," Michael mutters.

"Don't think we need a room, here," Jesse says. It's a place where anything goes, after all.

* * *

><p><em>Carly Simon – "You Belong to Me"<em>

Michael would be content to lie abed all day, trace and map every single part of Jesse's body. There are scars that he knows tell a story that he wants to hear about, but for now, he's okay with simply marking them and taking mental notes, filing them away for later, for after they've gone through whatever messy hell the day has in store for them, and fall into bed together.

Reluctantly, Michael nuzzles Jesse awake with a gentle kiss, tickling the fine hairs around Jesse's navel with his fingers. He likes the sleep-mussed look that Jesse gives him as he blinks his eyes open, the way that Jesse smiles – slow, with just a touch of lust.

_Mine_, Michael thinks, and smiles.

* * *

><p><em>Default – "Wasting My Time"<em>

Jesse walks down the street, blind to everything around him. Everything's black and white, all color's bled away to nothing. He's numb. Deaf. All sound is nothing more than the dull, quiet roar of white noise.

He stumbles, glares and growls at the elderly woman who stoops to help him to his feet. She quickly backs away, and Jesse wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He sucks in a couple of deep breaths that make him ache and shudder. He refuses to think past the pain, refuses to give into it. He scrambles to his feet, and pushes on, walking on autopilot.

His ears ring, like he's been caught in an explosion. All he can think is that it was all a waste of time, and Michael's gone. Dead.

* * *

><p><em>Staind – "Something to Remind You"<em>

Michael takes the longest route back to his home, sneaking peeks at Jesse in the rearview mirror. The man's a little worse for the wear, and all Michael can think about is how it's his fault. He caused this. He caused Jesse pain. It's the last thing he wanted to happen. The last thing he'd ever want for Jesse.

Michael loves Jesse, loves him more than he's ever loved anyone – Fi, his mom, his little brother.

Michael loves Jesse, and he supposes that it's time for the pattern to follow it's natural course. Time for Jesse to decide that it's all too much for him, that being with Michael will only cause him pain and heartache, and will kill him in the end.

He pulls up to his house, turns the engine off, and looks out of the window.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he waits for Jesse to open the door and leave.

"Not your fault." Jesse's voice is thick and rough, his hand on the back of Michael's neck is warm and steady, as are his lips.

* * *

><p><em>Beverly Kenny – "Born to be Blue"<em>

Dancing is not something that Jesse does often. It's not that he can't dance. He can. And well. It's more of a, 'he-doesn't-really-like-dancing,' sort of thing. Michael, however, doesn't know this when he sweeps Jesse onto the dance floor.

_Undercover_, Jesse reminds himself tersely, and he plasters a benign smile in place.

Letting Michael take the lead, Jesse sways along to the rhythm of the music, something a little jazzy, maybe bluesy. Whatever it is doesn't really matter, and Jesse really doesn't want to think about it.

Michael's body is pressed close to his, and Jesse can feel Michael's bulge pressing into his thigh. He swallows thickly, his head spinning, his mouth dry.

Michael's eyes are dark with lust, and Jesse feels dizzy with need, he's suddenly grateful that they've got a suite booked at the hotel, and wonders how long they have to play at this, because he wants nothing more than to get Michael out of his suit and into bed, nothing but sheets and skin between them.

* * *

><p><em>Puddle of Mudd – "Drift and Die"<em>

Michael watches. He's good at watching. It's a pretty big part of his job as a spy. One might think that being a spy is all about seducing sexy women (or men), glamorous shootouts, and explosions. But, it's more about gathering intelligence. And the bulk of that is done through research, watching and waiting.

Michael tries not to be obvious and tip his hand, but judging by the way his quarry turns and scratches at his head, Michael knows that he at least senses that he's being watched. Michael wonders how long it will take the man to figure it out – to find him in the sea of faces.

Lost in his musing, Michael frowns when someone rams into his shoulder. Momentarily taken off-guard, he scowls, and prepares to tell whomever it was to watch where he's going, but the warning dies on his lips.

"Caught ya," Jesse says, sidling up to Michael and kissing him on the cheek.

* * *

><p><em>Seether – "Fine Again"<em>

Jesse loses himself in the familiar task of disassembling, cleaning and reassembling his gun. It's a menial, but important task, one that could mean the difference between life and death. An improperly working firearm can wreak all sorts of havoc.

Laser-focused on what he's doing, Jesse doesn't even hear the door to Michael's place open. He's equally oblivious to the light tread of feet across the metal flooring. He's concentrating so hard on what he's doing, that he doesn't even notice when an arm is draped over his shoulders.

He's angry, and taking his anger out on his gun. Cleaning the instrument of death and life, to within an inch of its worth.

"Don't," Jesse says, when he concedes to acknowledge Michael's presence, the light kiss the man places on his head.

"I'm sorry," Michael says with a sigh.

Jesse tenses, doesn't look up.

"Dead men don't talk," Jesse replies quietly.

"'M not dead," Michael says.

Jesse shakes his head, slams his gun on the table, and a fist into Michael's jaw. "Don't you ever do that again."

Wide-eyed, clutching at his bruised jaw, Michael nods.

* * *

><p><em>Patty Griffin – "Rain"<em>

Michael loves nights like this – the sound of soft rain pinging off of his roof, Jesse lying beside him in bed, warm, limbs tangled up in his sheets. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No impending doom looming over their heads. No one to save, or rush to the rescue of.

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Michael has Jesse all to himself. It's a rare set of circumstances for the both of them, and he doesn't want it to end – ever.

"What is it?" Jesse's voice is clouded with concern as he peers at Michael through his eyelashes.

"Nothing," Michael says, clearing his throat, and turning so that he can better see Jesse. He rubs a hand along the inside of Jesse's thigh, and relishes the way that it makes Jesse moan.

"Should'a known," Jesse groans, but he grins and encourages Michael's hands to roam.


End file.
